


would you still love me ?

by desla_be



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bickering, Drabble, F/M, Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Self-Esteem Issues, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:14:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24087196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desla_be/pseuds/desla_be
Summary: Sansa wants to cut her hair but she’s a bit nervous about how Sandor’s going to feel about it. Sandor has a lot of opinions about the windows being open all night in the middle of winter.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 15
Kudos: 69





	would you still love me ?

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been on a writing frenzyyyy lately. I did a thing the other day where I spent an hour just writing a bunch of SanSan prompts (I made about 20) so I’m hoping to run through those over the next couple of months. 
> 
> Anyways hope you enjoy. I’m a bit stuck on the two of them doing each other’s hair, what can I say it’s so frigging cute omg *.*

Sansa stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her skin was bright red from the cold water with which she’d rinsed her face and the top of her head was frizzy where her hair had already begun drying. 

God, her _hair_ ; it was so long! With the ends flowing down nearly to her hips, Sansa could hardly reach around and brush it. More often than not these days she thought about cutting all of it off. 

But that was much too big a step for this hour in the night, so she tucked it away into the back of her mind as best as she could and bent her arm unnaturally backwards to untangle a knot. 

“Sandor!” called out Sansa. 

The bed creaked and a moment later, he was looming in the doorway. The baggy sleeves on his t-shirt made his broad shoulders look all the more massive. 

“Was wondering when you’d call for me,” Sandor grumbled, rubbing his hairline as he stepped behind her into the bathroom. The mirror didn’t catch anything above the collar of his shirt, as he willed it to be so. 

Sansa smiled as she twisted on her feet, holding the brush out.  “Could you...?” she asked, turning back towards the mirror and bending her chin down. 

Sandor smirked and took the brush. He ran his fingers over her neck, scooping up the span of her hair and closing his fist tightly around the handful exactly as she’d taught him. He pulled the brush through the knots at her ends, gradually working upwards until the bristles ran smoothly through. 

Sansa refused to use any other brush. The bristles were wide-spread and flexible and the bamboo back had been designed with small purple and white flowers. She’d gotten it a few years ago on vacation and it was worth every penny. She’d gotten Sandor a matching one, without the flowers, but he was perfectly content with the one from the dollar store.

The differences in the way that the brush felt when _she_ used it versus when Sandor did it _for_ her, however, were really not comparable. The tiny spheres that coated each bristle’s tip scraped gently along Sansa’s scalp as Sandor ran the brush over her head, _much_ more relaxingly than when she did it herself. When he pulled the brush down, over the back of her neck, a shiver ran along Sansa’s spine. 

“Um... _little bird_ ,” said Sandor, prodding at her hip. “I can’t brush your hair very well with you leaning against me.” 

Had she leaned against him? She couldn’t recall consciously moving at all but it was true: Sansa was relaxed against Sandor’s chest, her hair pressed between them. 

She didn’t want to move... but the sooner she got her hair over with, the sooner she could go back to bed and make Sandor roll over for her cuddles. 

“Sorry,” Sansa mumbled drowsily and depended on her own two feet again. 

Sandor pulled the brush through her damp locks, catching on a knot every now-and-then and jerking her head back accidentally.

Her hair was too long, simple as that. It was relaxing and lovely when Sandor brushed it for her, and she loved the color of it, but that was where the pros ended. With the length extending near to her hips, the weight was excessively irritating and never failed to give her a headache. 

And the products that she had to buy to take care of it made her wallet _cry_. Screw every single actor on those commercials— every single _person_ , more accurately, who said that she _only needed the size of a quarter_. 

Sansa also used leave-in conditioner, right after she got out of the shower each night, and hair oil on both the top of her head and the ends to make her hair shiny and frizz-free. 

But really, it would be so much easier for her to just cut it short. Sansa couldn’t remember a time when her hair was shorter than mid-back length and she was _really_ curious about how she would look with it short... And she’d never talked to Sandor about cutting it, but he loved her hair as it was and she was... well, nervous about how he would feel if she cut it. 

“I think all the knots are out,” said Sandor, spreading apart thicker locks to investigate if this was the truth. 

“ _You’re_ the one that can see it; do you see any tangles or not?” 

“No, there’s no more— _Wait_ ,” he grabbed the wooden brush off the edge of the sink and wiggled it through another knot. “ _Now_ there’s no more.” 

He set the brush back onto the bathroom countertop and dropped low to wrap his arms around her waist. As usual, Sandor avoided his reflection at all costs and tilted his face into her shoulder instead, rubbing the bridge of nose against her neck. 

“Anything else?” asked Sandor. He had a fresh-out-of-the-dryer warmth about him as he held her. 

Sansa looked at their reflections; her hair was still damp and heavy and it was creating a bulge where Sandor’s body intercepted hers. She knew exactly which drawer the hair-cutting scissors were in, as every day for the past three weeks now she’d looked inside the drawer to ponder the very thing she was pondering now. 

“Sandor,” she began timidly, clasping her hands around his forearms, “would you still love me if I cut off my hair?” 

Sandor stilled momentarily... before planting a kiss on her the edge of her shoulder, which Sansa determined to be a _yes_. She watched, through the mirror, as he turned his head to look at the side of her face. The reflection only showed the unscarred side of him. 

“Are you joking?” he asked. If it was supposed to make her more comfortable, it didn’t.

”Well... _no_ ,” Sansa admitted.

“Would you still love me if half my face was burned off?” said Sandor, tracing his fingers over her waist. 

“I mean... would you still be _attracted_ to me?” 

Sandor looked down to her shoulder. He ran his fingers through her hair briefly before standing to his full height again. 

Sansa spun around and put her hands onto his chest. “That came out wrong,” she said quickly. “I’m very, very, very, _very_ attracted to you.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re—“

“I know,” said Sandor, scooping Sansa under the thighs and placing her on the counter’s edge. “I don’t care if you dye your hair _green_ , Sansa. Nor if you chop all of it off. It’s whatever makes you happy, little bird. As long as you’re happy and healthy and safe, the rest is irrelevant,” he shrugged. 

“But I’d not mind,” Sandor continued, reaching around and grabbing the bamboo bush, “not doing _this_ every night for the rest of my life.” 

“I’m not going to chop all of it off,” said Sansa, turning to look at her reflection as she tried out hair lengths on herself. “Just maybe to... _here_ ,” she said, gesturing to her shoulders. “It’ll be almost the same length as yours— only, a little longer...” 

“Did you hear what I said?” grumbled Sandor, wrinkling up his good eyebrow at her. 

Sansa nodded. “Green wouldn’t look good on me,” she reflected. But it might look good on you...” she teased. “Hey, maybe _that’s_ your next color!” 

“Absolutely fucking _not_ ,” he growled, taking a brief peak at himself in the mirror before turning abruptly away. “As if I need to draw more attention to myself.” 

“Well maybe I’ll dye my hair black and we can match.” Sansa crossed her legs on the countertop. 

“We wouldn’t match,” Sandor laughed, looking over at the shower curtain, his hands braced beside her on the marble.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do,” said Sandor.

“You don’t even know what I would _look like_ with black hair.” 

“Listen, unless you’re wanting to set fire to your face too, you’re fresh out of luck. You and I will never match in this world.” 

“Oh come off it, Sandor,” said Sansa exasperatedly. So _dramatic_. “It was just a joke anyway. I wouldn’t look good with black hair.” 

Sandor rolled his eyes. 

“And you were the one just telling me that my looks are secondary to the more important things: my happiness and my health and safety,” said Sansa. “Why is it any different for you?” She curled two fingers from each hand through his belt loops and pulled him to the counter’s edge. “You know how I feel about you.” 

He _did_ know, because she told him every single day. If there was one thing that Sandor needed to be reminded of that often, it was everything that he did _right_... how grateful she was for him. 

None of her previous boyfriends would’ve gotten out of bed ten minutes early each morning to turn on the coffee pot because the scheduling feature had broken. And Sandor _always_ got up to get the door for their takeout deliveries... even if the reason for that was because he didn’t like Sansa answering the door without a bra. She didn’t usually want to answer the door without a bra either, so really it all worked out fine. 

And Sandor did her laundry half the time too, even if he was still sort of confused about her underwear _not_ needing to be folded. Her shirts were always wrinkled like they’d been through hell and back, and to be honest, she didn’t love Sandor going through her underwear anyway... Especially not the ones with period stains. But it was really sweet that he offered at all. And he almost always remembered to put the toilet seat down, even if it took three years to drill that habit into his thick skull.

He certainly had his share of annoying the daylights out of her, but she cared not to bring those moments up... like that he left his shoes in front of the door or, even worse, in the middle of the walkway to their bedroom. Sometimes he even left them on the _stairs_! And he conveniently _didn’t notice_ spilling juice all over the countertop nearly every single day. And, after many heated discussions, he was still determined to put empty containers back into the fridge.

Despite all of that, he had really good intentions. And in nearly five years of being together, Sandor had come to love Sansa more than he’d ever loved any of his kin... yet the love that she wanted him to have for himself was still not nearly as plentiful. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Sandor, scratching his head. “It was a stupid thing to say.” 

Sansa shook her head, giving him a disapproving look as she knotted the braid she’d created.

Sandor sighed. “It was an _unintelligent_ thing to say.” 

“That isn’t better!”

“Nonproductive?” he asked curiously. 

Sansa laughed and shook her head again. It didn’t really matter at the moment. She wrenched Sandor in with her legs and rested her face against his chest. “It wasn’t _stupid_ , Sandor. I just wish you didn’t mean it.” 

“Well I don’t. I don’t want you to have half a burned face.” He wriggled her arms away, his hips still locked between Sansa’s legs. “Look, can we just go to bed? I’m exhausted. And you’ve been gone _all day_ ,” he whined.

Sansa craned her neck to look at herself in the mirror again. “Yeah, let’s go to bed,” she said, using Sandor’s arms to scoot off the countertop. 

“We can cut it tomorrow,” Sandor offered, putting his arm around her waist as they walked the twelve-foot journey to their bedroom.

“ _We_?” said Sansa incredulously. “I’m not letting you anywhere _near_ my head with a pair of scissors.” 

Sandor shut the door behind her, chuckling shortly. “You can’t even _brush_ your hair and you think you’ll manage cutting it all by yourself?” She heard him kick his jeans to the side. 

“Before we met you were cutting your own hair and it looked just fine,” said Sansa as she pulled the blanket back. 

“I cut it myself because I didn’t give a shit about how it looked. _You_ , on the other hand... Unless you’ve got eyes in the back of your head, I don’t think you have another option. I’ll watch some video tutorials if that makes you feel better.” 

Sandor flicked off the lamp and there was a _whoosh_ of cool air as he waved the blanket over his frame. In moments, his limbs were locked around hers like a sloth’s around a branch. 

Sansa wiggled her long braid out from under his arm. She would be relieved when it was short; it was always getting _in the way_ , _snagging_ on everything it could. “Well with _your steady hand_ ,” she began sarcastically, “the haircut you give me really will test the strength of our relationship.” 

“You’re far more likely to hate me for ruining your _perfect hair_ than I’m likely to become un-attracted to you.” 

“Come on, Sandor— move your _leg_ ,” Sansa complained, pushing down on his hairy thigh. He did this almost every night. “It’s too hot and you’re hairier than Sasquatch.” 

“I am _not_ that hairy,” he grumbled. “And I wouldn’t need to depend on the little body heat that you provide if you closed the damn windows at night! You’re mad, wanting to sleep with the windows open in the middle of winter. Ever heard of frozen pipes?” 

Sansa sighed and wrenched her arm out above the blankets. The cool air was crisp on her skin. He didn’t grow up in the cold and he didn’t get it. She was sure that he would never have chosen to live here if it’d not been for her, and she greatly appreciated the sacrifice. He chased her halfway up the country and he was willing to leave the windows open every night... even if he wasn’t happy about it. Sansa could at least keep him warm. 

“Fine.” Sansa cradled his wide arm with hers as best as she could. His skin was indeed cold to the touch. “You’re freezing!” she observed, pressing her body closer and rubbing her legs fervidly between his. 

“Yeah,” Sandor agreed. “I’m _freezing_ ; glad you noticed. Maybe we could shut the windows?” he suggested bitterly all while leaning his face into her neck. 

Almost every night he depended on her to keep him warm and Sansa was convinced it was never going to get old, no matter how much she teased him for it. She couldn’t stop herself smiling beside his ear.

“No,” said Sansa, shaking her head gently. “Try a shirt. I hear that the more _clothes_ you wear, the warmer you’ll _be_! I like sleeping with the windows open, you like sleeping in your underwear. We all have our _things_ ,” she said, rubbing the cold out of his shoulder. “But  at least I have the sense to wear clothes.” 

“ _My_ clothes,” Sandor corrected, gesturing to the t-shirt of his that she was clad in. “Where I’m from, we don’t need to wear three layers to bed.” 

“Mm,” Sansa nodded. “Interesting point that you make... But we’re actually _not_ where you’re from right now.”

“Sleep soundly, little bird. I’ll remember this conversation when I’m cutting your hair tomorrow. Maybe my hands will be even _steadier_ than they usually are.”

“You wouldn’t,” challenged Sansa. 

Sandor shrugged nonchalantly. 

“No,” Sansa shook her head. “You wouldn’t.” She ran her hands along his the middle of his bare back. The lower half was _very_ sensitive and every time her fingertips approached it, he bubbled over with goosebumps. 

“Stop that,” he growled, his leg twitching against her.

She ignored the warning and Sandor rolled onto his back and pulled her overtop of him, her braid once again getting caught underneath his arm. She would be relieved when that didn’t happen anymore.

“You know I would never do that to you,” he said, curling the ends of her hair in his fingers. 

“I know,” said Sansa, pulling the blankets over her shoulders to make sure that the draft wasn’t leaking underneath. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

Sansa lined her figure on top of his as best as she could to keep him warm, even though he was so much broader than she was. How exciting that she would be cutting her hair tomorrow! Well, _Sandor_ would be cutting it. 

“You’ll do fine,” Sansa said. “I trust you. And if you mess it up too badly... well, I’ll cut _your_ hair... and get you back for it.”

Sandor laughed. “You already _do_ cut my hair,” he pointed out.

Sansa frowned. He had her there. “I thought you were _exhausted_ ,” she challenged. And when he opened his mouth again, she pinched his lips together with her fingers and tried not to laugh as he narrowed his eyes coldly at her. “You need a good night’s sleep, Sandor. You’re cutting my hair tomorrow, after all.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Also hit up my tumblr (@deslabe) if you feel so inclined. Most of the other people in my life lack the capacity to listen to me explain why SanSan is an absolute treasure, too good for this world, for the millionth time. So if that <— is what your situation is/if you’d like to discuss prompts with me hmu & we can talk :))) 
> 
> As I mentioned... I’m sort of going through a frenzy of creativity, so I’ll have some more things out soon. 
> 
> I will admit that i have just one more hair-related prompt in my queue & it’s comprised of Sansa teaching Sandor how to braid & I think it’ll be canon setting.


End file.
